


Mystrade one-shot

by PWeasley99



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Death, Don't Kill Me, Horror, I Had To, M/M, don't just see, don't pay attention to the tags, just read the story, observe, pay attention to everything, romantic lead up, trollin 4 lyfe, twist - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-28
Updated: 2015-12-28
Packaged: 2018-05-09 22:00:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5557097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PWeasley99/pseuds/PWeasley99
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short story that I wrote. Hope you like it. Contains a twist, so pay attention. Mystrade first meeting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mystrade one-shot

Greg climbed the stairs that led to 221B. An explosive argument coming from inside had been reported by people in the neighbouring apartment blocks. Greg sighed as he reached the top step, fearing the worst. Sherlock had obviously done something to seriously piss off the ex-army doctor, which is how their rows usually started. The detective inspector just hoped that John hadn't decided to make real his threats to kill Sherlock for his constant destructive mannerisms.

Greg stepped up to the door, but pausing when he heard Sherlock curse at the top of his lungs. He waited for John's usual course reply, but it never came. Instead, a posh voice that would make the Queen herself envious yelled back. “Sherlock! Stop being so childish! Mummy would not be proud to hear you speak to me like this!”  
“Oh, you can talk!” shouted Sherlock. “You were always Mummy's favourite. Mummy's little Mikey!”  
“SHUT UP!” shrieked the posh voice, before a massive thwack was heard. At this time, Greg knew that he should interfere, after all, it was his job to keep people safe.

He grabbed the doorknob with a firm grip and turned it as he forced the door open with his shoulder. Unsurprisingly, the door was unlocked. “Police! Freeze!” he shouted as he flew threw the doorway and stumbled as the extra force he had added to his entrance forced him forward, almost making him face plant into the carpet. He regained his balance and composure, then surveyed the scene before him. Sherlock was frozen in a cowering position on the couch, with an angry-looking posh man towering over him, an umbrella in his hand raised to deliver another threatening smack to the arm of the couch, just inches away from Sherlock's left arm. Both men were looking at him with shocked expressions and Greg felt his cheeks flush as the posh man surveyed him with more attention than Sherlock, who's eyes merely skimmed over Greg's face, smirking and drawing his attention back to the posh man.

“Well, Mycroft, it seems that my saviour is here at last. What took you so long, Lestrade? I wish for my annoying brother to be escorted back to the pits hell where he came from.” Sherlock said.  
Greg swallowed thickly and awkwardly shuffled his feet, but then realised that he was being paid to take care of the situation, which is exactly what he was going to do.  
“DI Lestrade. New Scotland Yard.” he held his hand out to the posh man to shake. “Is there a problem here? We've been getting noise complaints from residents in the area and I thought that I'd better come and make sure that everything is in order.” Greg tried to speak calmly and stick to protocol, but he got distracted by the posh man's rich blue eyes and ended up stumbling over his words. To him, it sounded like incoherent babble, but the man seemed to understand what he was trying to say, giving the detective inspector an understanding smile.

“No, detective inspector. No problem at all.” Mycroft replied, taking Greg's hand to shake it. “Mycroft Holmes. I occupy a minor position in the British Government.”  
“In other words,” Sherlock interrupted, “He is the British Government.”  
Mycroft shot his brother a murderous glare while Greg grinned. “Wow! Pretty impressive! Colour me intrigued!”  
The Holmes brothers both looked taken aback by Greg's remark, but the surprised looks were soon wiped off to reveal the signature Holmes poker face that Greg was so familiar with, with the exception of a slight flush forming on Mycroft's porcelain cheeks.

It was now that Greg realised that their hands were still joined awkwardly, but when he made a move to release his hand from Mycroft's firm grip, the man only gripped tighter and started stroking Greg's palm with his thumb. The detective inspector looked up to come face to face with the politician's stunningly blue eyes. Greg subconsciously licked his bottom lip and Mycroft's eyes shot to the spot where Greg's tongue had flickered. Unfortunately for them, Sherlock had had a front row view of the whole exchange.

“NO! No, no, no, no. no! Gavin, get away from devil before he drags you down into hell with him. I'm warning you! MYCROFT! Stop flirting with Graham!”  
“It's GREG!” Greg corrected, reluctantly breaking his contact with Mycroft. “And where's John? I thought he'd be here with you.”  
Sherlock sighed. “Unfortunately John left just before Mycroft arrived, so he missed our little... disagreement.” Sherlock chose his words carefully.

Mycroft huffed and turned back to face the inspector. “I feel like a cup of tea...”  
“You're not welcome to Baker Street, let alone to my food!” Sherlock argued, before Greg interrupted.  
“Sherlock, allow your brother a cup of tea or else I'll take you off the Daylight Ripper case.”  
The consulting detective shot him a death glare, but Greg stared him down. Eventually, Sherlock gave a nod and allowed Mycroft and Greg access to the kitchen.

Greg followed Mycroft into the small kitchen and proceeded to make tea for the three of them in silence. He handed the teacup to Mycroft, who drank the tea without complaint, so that was a huge green flag for Greg. Sherlock took his cup out into the living room, not so much as uttering a 'thank you' to Greg as he did.

When Sherlock was out of earshot, Greg hesitantly turned and faced Mycroft, who was too busy studying him to realise that he'd been caught staring. Greg smirked.  
“You have questions.” Mycroft said out of the blue.  
“Um, yes.” Greg muttered awkwardly. “What do you actually do? I mean, I know you work in politics, but what is it that you do in that area?”  
Mycroft considered this for a moment before replying.  
“The blood runs just under the skin, does it not? You never see it, but you know it's there, working its way though your system, keeping everything running smoothly. You will occasionally catch glimpses of the veins in which the blood moves through, but you can never stop the blood flowing without causing major damage to the system. In other words, without me, England would fall. Does that make sense?”  
Greg stood in silence, absolutely speechless, but he still managed (somehow) to nod his head in understanding. Mycroft smiled and adjusted his umbrella that was casually resting against his leg.

When Greg finally found his voice, he blurted “Pretty and smart!” before realising his mistake when Mycroft flushed beetroot red and Greg tried desperately to redeem himself. “I mean, I assumed you were smart, but you Holmes' have a knack for exceeding my expectations!” By this time, Greg was also blushing furiously and Mycroft was trying to hold back a giggle.

But before Greg could properly process what was happening, Mycroft had spun around and pinned him to the kitchen counter, his face only a breath away from Greg's. His long nose brushed against Greg's stubbled cheek, making the detective inspector shiver.  
“Gregory,” the politician whispered against Greg's cheek, pushing his umbrella up to create friction between Greg's legs.  
“We've only just met,” Greg gasped, before his lips were swallowed by Mycroft's and he began to let his worries melt away as he devoted all of his attention to the kiss. He felt Mycroft bite down on his bottom lip and Greg moaned. But that moan soon turned into a muffled scream as the politician bit down harder, and literally swallowed Greg's bottom lip whole.

Mycroft licked his own bloodstained lips clean and lapped up the blood from Greg's chin with his tongue, letting the coppery flavour linger in his mouth for a moment before swallowing. Greg's eyes were wild as he tried calling out for Sherlock to help him, but Mycroft covered his mouth with his hand and proceeded to nibble roughly at his earlobe. In one strong clamp of the politician's jaw, Greg now roughly resembled Van Gogh. Suddenly, Mycroft's mouth unhinged like a snake right in front of Greg's very eyes. The detective inspector struggled desperately and tried to cry out for help or attempt one last fruitless plea for mercy, but he knew that there was nothing that could help him now. The politician clamped Greg's head between his powerful jaws and crunched down. Greg's body slumped instantly as his skull caved in, spilling brain matter onto the kitchen floor. With any luck, John would come home and blame the mess on one of Sherlock's experiments.

Mycroft bent down to to lap up the spilled brain matter, and then successfully managed to clean up any evidence of his involvement. He took a long-bladed pocket knife out of his suit pocket and slashed strategically placed cuts into the dead DI's neck, abdomen and wrists. It won't distract from the cracked and deformed skull indentations, but New Scotland Yard will rule that out as impact from the fall, Mycroft thought as he lifted Greg's body and pushed him out of the open window. He heard a crash and a thunk as the body landed behind some trash cans, out of sight.

Mycroft went to make his escape, when he met Sherlock in the kitchen doorway.  
“He wasn't that bad, you know.” the younger Holmes yawned.  
“Why don't you let me handle my own affairs and I'll leave you to handle yours, brother-mine.” Mycroft replied, taking the time to adjust his suit and dust off his umbrella. “Now let me pass. I have said affairs to deal with when I get back to work. Such as, your alibi, for instance.”  
“I was out of the house picking up groceries with John and you were never here.” Sherlock recited. He yawned again. “Dull.”

The elder Holmes just smiled and Sherlock allowed him to pass. When he got to the front door, he paused. Sherlock knew that his brother wanted to have the last word, but Sherlock would never allow Mycroft that privilege.  
“And, although I hate to admit it, you are doing well, Daylight Ripper.”  
Mycroft smirked at his brother's compliment, before hastily making his exit. Sherlock gave a small sigh, made his way to the couch, and retreated to his mind palace, patiently awaiting John's return.

**Author's Note:**

> Ok. I know this is a 'wtf' situation, but don't kill me. I thought of it at 3am and HAD to write it. If you liked it, kudos and nice comments are much appreciated. If you didn't like it, deal with it. I am proud of my work. If you have any prompts for me, please do leave them in comments and I will consider them.


End file.
